The Finder

30

"A wheelchair gigolo?"

"Yes, he only-you know-does it with women in wheel-chairs."

Connie lowered her voice into the phone. She didn't want anyone to hear her, including the house staff, who knew too much about her, anyway. "Old women?"

"No, no. Young, thirties, forties, maybe fifties."

"They pay him?"

"Well, yes. They pay him a lot, I heard. But they don't mind. It doesn't seem like much, considering."

"Considering what?" she asked.

"Considering how good he is! You'd be surprised how many women with money there are in New York City who are in wheelchairs. You know, from falls, back problems, multiple sclerosis… hundreds, anyway."

"I never see them, though."

"Most kind of hide. I've got one in my building. That's how I found out about him."

"And your friend, how often does he-?"

"Once a month, about. Her husband never touches her. Not in years."

"Did she tell you about what-oh, God, wait, just a moment." Connie listened for the sound of the men coming down from the roof. Her husband and the funny little Chinese man named Chen whom they'd just had to dinner were up on the terrace having drinks and smoking cigars. They'd been up there awhile already. What could they possibly be discussing now? It had been the absolutely worst dinner conversation ever-stilted and weird, mostly because the guy's English was so bad, not to mention his skills with a fork, with Bill acting as if the man was some kind of high-powered global chieftain. Well, sorry, she knew who all those guys were, especially the billionaires in Hong Kong and Singapore, and this guy didn't rate. Bill said some other men might join them later. She listened again, heard nothing.

"Sorry, go on," she said, "you were saying her husband never touches her and she and the gigolo guy do it and all that."

"The neighbor heard them one afternoon, heard her."

"Come on! Who is he?"

"Well, he's like this tall logger guy in a flannel shirt who lives outside the city. He's like maybe twenty-nine, thirty. Comes in for one week a month. Kind of just does everyone, then leaves."

"That's-isn't that kind of sick? Or weird?"

"Actually, I think it's sweet."

"Well, they do pay him."

"Sure, but he doesn't have to do this! I heard it all started because he used to deliver Christmas trees and firewood into the city each winter, just a regular job, and I guess one time it was a woman in a wheelchair and one thing led to, like, another."

"I say he's on a weirdo power trip."

"That's what I thought. Exactly. But I heard differently. He's supposed to be gentle. Firm but gentle. A lot of these women are in chronic pain, are very stiff in the joints, weird medical conditions, the spine… you can imagine some of the problems."

Connie felt an odd irritation and clicked her fingernails against the inlaid table she'd found in-well, wherever it had been, Portobello Road in London, Rue Jacob in Paris, maybe. "It's got to be-"

The bedroom intercom buzzed.

"Connie," barked her husband's voice. "When those guys get here, send them up to the roof. Right away."

"Yessir, Mr. Husbo." She clicked off, returned to the phone. "I was saying it's got to be a weird power trip thing."

"Connie, I'm telling you that's what I thought."

"Until-?"

"I saw him."

"What?" she gasped.

"I talked to him."

A gust of jealousy went through her. "You did?"

"He's nice. Very intelligent. Maybe even a little shy."

Why did this information torment her? "Does he, you know, do regular women?"

"That sounds kinda desperate, Connie."

"It is kinda desperate."

"What happened to that guy you had?"

"He started getting close to finding out about Bill, you know, how much money there was."

"What's, you know… going on with Bill?"

"Well, I do love him. But, you know… did I ever tell you he pisses in the tub every morning?"

"Oh-migod."

"As long he's interested in something, one of his ridiculous deals or why some billion-dollar company is not doing well, he's bearable. He's got one like that right now, tonight. I try to encourage him, you know, give him something to do! Otherwise I'd-"

"You'd be out buying a wheelchair!"

"Don't tell anyone else about this guy! I'm serious! Pretty soon New York magazine will do a story on him and everyone will know and it'll be ruined."

"Won't tell, promise."

"You know how to meet this guy?"

"Sure. He comes by the building."

"When next? I want to-" She heard the building intercom buzzing. "Sorry, I got to go do this. Hold on."

The roof terrace was reached by a private elevator within their apartment. She'd insisted they put it in so that she didn't have to use the regular elevator, which, after all, had an operator in it all the time, and she liked to go up to the roof in a bathing suit to exercise or sunbathe. The intercom buzzed again and she opened the door and was surprised to see five men in business suits, each carrying a briefcase. One of them was that little old man named Elliot she'd met years ago.

"Must be quite a party you guys have planned," she noted as he politely shook her hand. "But I guess girls aren't invited."

Elliot smiled in distant amusement. "Your husband is a remarkable man," he said. "And I cherish his friendship."

"Bill is up on the roof with a certain Mr. Chen, who's here from China."

Elliot looked her in the eye. "Mrs. Martz, I can assure you we are very familiar with this Mr. Chen."

She took them inside the apartment and down the hall to the other elevator, watched them get in, then remembered-the wheelchair gigolo! — and hurried back to the phone.